


Moriarity Gets Bored

by DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Bondage, Creepy Moriarty, Fluff and Angst, John is Missing, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty's Web, Other, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a simple text message and soon a twisted little adventure (as only Moriarty can orchestrate) ensues. </p><p>WARNING: Contains Moriarity so you know it is bound to get twisted a f@€|{</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**NEW TEXT MESSAGE**

[Monday 3:01 AM]

>   
>  _‘Define your meaning of war.’_  
> 

[Monday 3:02 AM] 

>   
>  _‘To me it’s what we do when we’re bored.’_  
> 

[Monday 3:03 AM] 

>   
>  _‘Guess what… I’m bored. -JM’_  
> 

Sherlock blinks down at the screen of his mobile phone. His stomach clenches in knots and he immediately leaps to his feet, stumbling unsteadily back from the desk he had been dozing on in the sitting room of 221B. 

> _John. John? Where’s John? Must…Find… John._

  
__________________________

John wakes up in pain. His body throbs. He can’t breathe. Everything lurches and pulls away from him at the edges, like trying to see the world through the bottom of a shot glass. He blinks, shakes his head, and tries to focus. He can feel panic sneaking up on him, and he stamps it down feverently.

> _Focus, Watson. What are the facts? What do we know?_

John shifts a little, willing his senses to gather in everything that might help him understand what he is facing. 

> _Musty. Warm. Barely any light. Thin fabric bag over head. Hands tied behind back; thick rope that burns when moved, digging into wrists. Hard chair beneath. Legs tied to their respective legs of the chair. Binding around chest, more rope, pulls taut when breathing. Something grasping knee, moving up inside of thigh._

He immediately stills, holding his breath. The motion stops but the pressure does not withdraw.

“Good.” draws a familiar voice that sends icy cold spikes down his spine. Moriarty’s honeyed, singsong voice wraps around him like a serpent. “You’re awake… _and_ … I have your _full_ attention” John shutters in spite of himself and bites back an urge to call out for Sherlock.

> _Where’s Sherlock? Has he got Sherlock? What has he done to him? Is Sherlock Ok?_

“Oh, please, do go ahead, Dr. Watson,” Moriarty coos. His voice suddenly drops and his seductive whisper comes from right by his ear. “John.” Then the voice retreats to somewhere in front of and below him. “Go ahead and call out for Sherlock. See what good it will do you.” 

John can hear the sneer in his voice. He can feel Moriarty’s eyes running coldly over him; assessing him.

There is silence a moment as Moriarty waits. Then he feels a hand moving up the inside thigh of his other leg. John evokes his army training to push all thoughts out of his mind and remain still, quelling the natural desire to seek some means of escape. The hands stop midway between his knee and groin, rounds to the top of his legs and squeezes hard; fingers digging into fabric and flesh. He stifles his grunt and clenches his jaw.

“I do so enjoy a good scream,”Moriarity hisses. The voice is close again; mockingly warm and intimate. “Dont worry, love. We’ll get _there_ … I plan to get _very familiar_ with your screams.” 

The hands retreat and after a pause the fabric bag over John’s head is suddenly yanked off. He blinks and gazes around, assessing the situation. 

Sickly light struggles to pierce the interior of the disused factory he sits in. Cold concrete floors stretch out in all directions and large machines, half covered in tarps, make hulking shapes where shadows take over. A sense of deja vu makes him narrow his eyes and inspect the the cavernous space, searching to place it in his memory. 

Moriarty stands a few paces away, his inky black eyes watching his captive. A wicked smirk pulls his thin lips upward. He crosses his arms over his dark blue, perfectly tailored suit. A finger presses to his lips as he considers John. His adumbral hair is slicked back and he looks, for all intents and purposes, as if he belongs in the pages of a menswear magazine. The odd contrast of such a posh man standing in the middle of this abandoned factory secures John’s memory.

> _First meeting with Mycroft, when he called himself Sherlock’s archenemy and offered to pay you to spy._

Moriarty’s eyes light up as he observes the awareness dawn on John’s face. A pleased smile spreads across his lips, never touching his eyes. He unfolds his arms, making a dramatic gesture to take in the whole factory. “Yes… _Yes,_ you recognize it… Good,” he beams proudly at John. Then in an instant the sinister shade claims his face again. “Oh, this _is_ going to be fun.” 

Those swarthy eyes drag over John hungrily. “Oh, daddy has got a new _pet_ and we are going to have… so… much… fun!”

John glares at Moriarty and surges against his bindings. His blood boils at the mere sight of the man. John’s mind cycles through visions of harming Moriarty; the ways his fists are going to wipe that smirk off his face, ways he is going to make him bleed and cry and beg for mercy for all the horrible things he’s made Sherlock endure. Rage burns deep within John’s chest and builds into a low growl.

Moriarty’s eyes narrow on John, glinting with tenebrous joy.

“Oh, yes… _Do_ use your _little_ imagination, Johnny boy… Your proclivity towards violence _really_ is…” Moriarity pauses, mouth slightly agape. He watches John intensely as he languidly traces his tongue over his bottom lip, pulling it in at the corner and biting down gently. “Quite appealing,” he breathes in a throaty voice. John barely manages to repress a visible shudder.

Moriarty quickly traverses the space to loom over him. He leans down, his malicious face hovering uncomfortably close. “Oh, but don’t stop there, _Johnny Boy,_ ” he spews down at him. “Yes, imagination is the best part… so, _imagine_ … imagine for me what _I…_ am going to do… to _you,_ ” Moriarty sneers, searching his eyes for reaction. He straightens his shoulders and sets his jaw. He stares up into Moriarty’s vacuous eyes, unblinking, refusing to cower. He is resolved to never give Moriarty _that_ satisfaction. 

Moriarty’s cheshire cat smile has a dark and menacing edge now. He tilts his head slightly, then slowly drops his eyes to John’s lap. “Sherlock is going to be _so_ jealous,” He chirps appearing very pleased with himself. 

He shifts his eyes up to lock on John’s again. He feels as if the darkness in Moriarty’s eyes is reaching out, penetrating, trying to crawl it’s way inside him through his own eyes. Cold chills run down his body. He adjusts his chin and refuses to waiver; giving a seething return glare. Moriarty’s smile deepens.

Suddenly Moriarty whirls away. He stands in front of John with his back to him; arms outstretched. 

“Let the show begin!” Moriarity announces. Loud classical music begins to play, reverberating through the empty factory. He makes a sweeping motion to the side and reveals the blinking red dot of a camera recording from a tripod directly in front of them. He snaps his fingers on the beat and a smattering of red sighting dots coalesce on John’s chest. 

John feels his heart and breath quicken. He stares blankly at the camera; frozen.

> _Sherlock is on the other side of that camera._

Moriarty’s eyes are pressed closed, his features contorting in apparent ecstasy as he makes sweeping motions around in an arc to arrive behind John’s chair. 

He feels Moriarty’s cold, nimble fingers brush across his scalp as they move through his hair from the nape of his neck to the top of his head where they suddenly sink in, clenching a first full of his hair and yanking back hard. A small grunt of surprise and pain escapes John’s lips. His neck strains. With his head is tilted back at a severe angle, he can only see the the high metal ceiling above him. The rafters are bleak and barren. He doesn’t flinch as he feels the cold steel blade press against the sensitive skin of his exposed throat. He swallows and closes his eyes. 

His mind focuses, razor sharp, as it always does whenever he finds himself in mortal danger. Several thoughts occur at once; memories of videos of captured soldiers beheaded, anatomy of the neck and what areas are most likely to cause fatal bleeding when sliced, the amount of blood loss that is considered fatal, a memory of a soldier he’d worked on with a piece of shrapnel lodged his neck - the odd sucking and gurgling sound and the look in his eyes as he slipped away.

The chaos is broken by Sherlock’s voice inside his head; serene in its cold logic: 

>   
>  _This is _not_ the end, John. He’s going to kill you _ eventually _and then he’s going after me, but not yet… No… _Not yet_ … It’s a game… He wants to make me suffer… he is going to draw it out… the less you give the more he has to draw it out… everybody lives as long as you don’t break, John. _  
> 

The music swells and ebbs as he feels the blade ghost across his neck in sweeping motions. He tries to keep his breath steady as the sharp sting of the blade crisscrossing from his chin to his chest works to derail his efforts to remain calm. He feels the blood trickling down his throat from the paper thin cuts left behind. 

His mind is retreating, desperately searching for something to clamp down on his body’s urge to fight, scream, run, beg; do anything to save himself from bleeding out in this desolate factory with Sherlock watching through a camera lense from miles away. A memory is churned to the surface of his mind; his first crime mystery with Sherlock.

 __

>  _Sherlock leans in, “Yeah, but if you were dying, ifyou’d been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?”_

> _He swallows and responds in a deadpan voice, “Please, God, let me live.”_

> _Sherlock whirls away, frustrated. “Oh, use your imagination!”_

> _His heart seizes painfully in his chest. “I don’t have to.”_

> _Sherlock pauses momentarily and blinks a couple of times, shifting his feet apologetically before continuing. “Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever…”_

John is so focused on his breathing, re-living that moment with Sherlock and blocking the pain signals from his neck that he startles when the cold, smooth surface of the side of the knife blade is pressed down flat against his lips. The metallic taste of his own blood seeps into his mouth as the wide surface slowly drags across his lips, wiping his blood from the blade into his mouth.

Moriarty keeps a firm hold on John’s hair as his voice whispers close to his ear. “You’re being such a good _soldier_. Such a good _boy_ … Sherlock will be so sad he didn’t take better care of his _pet._ ” 

Moriarty releases John and he rocks forward. He forces his eyes open, looking straight at the camera he blinks out in Morse Code. **‘MYCROFT’**

“All’s fair in _love_ and _war_ , Sherlock!” Moriarty announces in a dramatic voice from behind John’s chair. He slides to the side of him and violently stabs the knife into the wooden seat between his legs, leaving it standing upright. John reflexively flinches. 

Moriarty looks straight at John as his hand slides off the handle, fingertips lingering on the tip a few seconds before sweeping away in time to the music. He whirls towards the camera. 

“Come out and play, Sherlock,” he provokes; lifting his arms and angling his hips so he resembles a bullfighter taunting the bull. 

He steps closer to the camera and his voice drops lower. “I have all your _favorite_ toys,” Moriarity purrs. He winks as the camera clicks off.


	2. Video Message

Sherlock stands in Mr. And Mrs. John Watson’s bedroom. His breathing is heavy, his eyes are unfocused as he turns slow circles. 

His brain is malfunctioning. He is aware of this, but there seems no way to _reboot the hard drive_. He is locked out and the error message screaming across his mind like a blaring siren he can not silence is: _**John's gone! John's gone! Moriarty has John! Save John Watson! John Watson is gone!**_

Sherlock is startled by the sound of pounding, fist urgently against wood. It takes all his energy to make his body cooperate, but he forces his legs to stumble to the front door, and his hands to undo the lock and throw it open. 

Lestrade stares up at him, his face pulled tight in fear and concern. “Anything?” 

He feels detached and remote. He is startled to hear his own remarkably calm voice utter, “John and Mary are both gone. Signs of a struggle in the bedroom. It's likely they repelled down from the roof and came in through the window. They took John and Mary down the fire escape to a transport van awaiting in the alley.”

He blinks, startled by his own deductions. He finds it surprising his brain is working somewhere in the background. The signal is hijacked, yet it continues to work and churn out results. This is somewhat of a comfort to him. At least his corrupted hard drive won't render him completely useless.

“What now then?” Lestrade asks desperately. He shifts impatiently from foot to foot. “Any clues where he took ‘em?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. He can feel the tremble starting deep inside him; an earthquake rattling his core and radiating outward, gathering strength as it goes. 

“Are you gonna get that?” Lestrade asks. Reviewing his sensory log, he realizes it is the third time the DI is asking and that he is referring to the sound coming from his mobile phone in his pocket. 

He fishes out the source of the sound. It's not _Sherlock’s_ mobile, it's the pink phone Moriarty had sent him. He hesitates before he opens the phone and clicks on the message. A video file downloads and begins playing.

Moriarty is dancing across the screen. He steps aside revealing John sitting alone on a chair in a large dark room, ropes binding him. 

“John,” Sherlock gasps. He feels his chest collapsing in on itself. The expression on John's face is inscrutable as he stares blankly past Moriarty and at Sherlock through his phone screen.

“He looks... _ok_ ,” Lestrade offers tentatively. Sherlock hadn't noticed when the older man moved to stand beside him to watch the video. He flicks his eyes to Lestrade and is disoriented by anyone but John standing beside him. The older man seems to understand, but looks up at Sherlock with fatherly encouragement.

Moriarty has moved to behind John and has his head pulled back. Sherlock feels his skin crawl just thinking of the slimy man touching John. He feels the rising urge to throw Moriarty out the window a few times. 

It is impossible to see John's face at the awkward angle Moriarity has his head tipped. He takes in the image of the bottom of John's pointed chin and the sturdy column of John's strong neck. He'd never seen him like this before. He finds himself thinking about seeing John's eyes again, even if it is just that stoic and unreadable gaze seeking him across the distance between them. 

“Oh, Christ!” Lestrade grabs for the phone as Moriarty’s knife comes down; flashing silver slashing long strokes back and forth against John's neck.

Sherlock collapses into a heap on the floor, the image burned into his mind of the first streams of blood trickling down John's throat. 

The classical music from the video continues above Sherlock along with a litany of curses from Lestrade.

The sirens screeching in Sherlock's brain reach excruciating levels. He clutches his head. He is falling straight down the middle of his Mind Palace staircase; flight after flight of twisting stairs whizzing by all around him. Darkness swallows him up and the world ceases to have any directionality. 

“He's alive, Sherlock! John is alive,” Lestrade is shouting at him as he curls into a ball on the floor. “All superficial, Sherlock. He didn’t seriously injure him, Sherlock. Look at me... Bloody hell… You can't... _just_ … we need your help… John's _alive_ … John's alive and he _needs your help_ , Sherlock… come out of it... we need your help.”


	3. Chapter 3

Moriarity snaps his fingers and the sighting dots disappear from where they were hovering over John's heart.

“You did so well, my pet,” Moriarity hums turning away from the camera to face him. “Yes, just as I expected.” He saunters towards John, his chin dipping low so he is looking up at him from below his lashes with those too large eyes. “And now for your _reward_.” 

Moriarity stops a few feet away from him and looks him over a moment; cold reptilian eyes burning hot with malice. If John had to venture to guess what the devil looked like he would have to consider James Moriarty as the closest thing he'd ever seen. 

Moriarty plucks the knife from between his legs and twists it back and forth in his hands so the light flashes on it. “It's a psychological thing, you know,” Moriarty says conversationally. He is gazing down at the knife twisting in his hands as if mesmerized. “A gun can kill you as easy as a knife, but people... _ordinary_ people… they are more afraid of knives.” His voice becomes dismissively singsong.”It gets their little imaginations _so_ excited.” His eyes lock on John. His voice is low and intense again. “But you and I… we don't have to imagine... The blood... So much blood... We don’t fear it.” 

Moriarity rests the tip of the knife against his own index finger and twists. He withdraws it and watches as a large droplet of red forms. He stares at John as he slowly places his finger in his mouth and sucks noisily, humming in pleasure. He pulls it out with an obscene popping sound and holds it out to John. “Would you like a taste?” He draws with mock innocence.

John's jaw tightens and he glares at him with steel in his eyes. Moriarty chuckles. “Oh, Johnny boy, such a prig. It’s _charming_ , really.” His smile is predatory now and his voice sinks lower. “Mmm… I like it. Oh so fun.” 

Moriarity pulls a hakerchief from his pocket and licks a large swath on it. He closes the short distance to John and slides on to his lap; his knees coming to rest by his hips. John rocks back as far as he can in the chair. He thinks to himself that he suddenly misses Magnussen’s face flicking; considering it much preferrable to Moriarty’s combination of slimy advances and sadistic mind games.

The man smiles and reaches for his face. He growls, leaning his head back. Moriarty tuts. “My boy, let me clean you up.” He cups a hand around the back of John's neck and yanks forward. He grunts, straining against the hold and cringing as Moriarty scrubs with his saliva wetted handkerchief at the blood streaking his face . “Oh, such a mess," Moriarty says like a fretful mother. Every few strokes he gives a painful yank to John’s neck. When he stops struggling Moriarty’s strokes become gentler; imitating the softness and attentiveness of someone with affection. "I told you I take better care of my pets,” He purrs. He stops and they just stare intensely at each other a long moment. 

“I want to thank you,” Moriarty finally says smiling, his eyes welling up in a pretty convincing semblance of gratitude. “That was so well done, with the code.” Moriarity batts his eyes at John, alternating between fast and slow blinks. John slumps into his chair more, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Did you think you got me?” Moriarity’s face is alight with amusement that doesn't reach his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. _Nobody_ gets to _me_ , Johnny boy. Noone.” The amused look slips off his face and his head sways from side to side like a snake before striking. “But don’t worry, we will be such good hosts. We’ll have a surprise waiting for Sherlock when he comes around. A little _parting gift._ ” He whispers darkly.

Terror creeps over John with the realization that Moriarity used him to lure Sherlock into a trap. A sudden surge of rage comes over him and without a thought for the consequences he wheels back and brings forward his head with all his strength; crashing his forehead down on Moriarty’s nose. Moriarty slips backwards off of his lap in slow motion, eyes wide with genuine shock as blood begins to gush out of his nose and over his lips. 

__“Look who just _‘got to’_ James _Fucking_ Moriarty.” John says mockingly with a smug smile and watches the twinged in the corner of Moriarty’s eye. He realizes these are the first words he has spoken for this whole ordeal and he starts laughing and is unable to stop. His rough laugh echos and reverberates in the empty warehouse._ _

__Moriarty presses the hankerchief to his nose and stands up. His eyes flick behind John and with an almost imperceptible nod to someone in the shadows he feels the sharp jab as a syringe sinks into his neck. He stares directly into Moriarty's cold black eyes as he slips away into unconsciousness, still laughing._ _

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt from Promptsifyouwantem_   
>  _WARNING: Contains Moriarity so you know it is just twisted a f@€|{_   
>  _**Stay tuned for more chapters!** _   
> 


End file.
